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3

this month at usyd
NOVEMBER

mon

tue

wed

thu

fri
Liberty
Luncheon
UNI BROS
12pm

MANsoc:
Therapy Dogs
LAW LAWNS
12pm
SASS:
AGM
HOLME
4pm

13

8

SASS:
AGM
MANNING
2pm

2

9

Catholic Society:
Therapy Dogs
LAW LAWNS
12pm

14

Evangelical Union:
Therapy Dogs
LAW LAWNS
12pm

Sydney Uni
Liberal Club: AGM
HOLME
REDACTED
12pm

20

23

SASS:
AGM
WENTWORTH?
2pm

28

4

Lifechoice:
Therapy Dogs
LAW LAWNS
12pm

29

what would usyd
be without western
civilisation?
YOUR MOVE WOCO, WRITES CHASE VANDERMAN

When the Ramsay Centre was
first announced, the social justice
warriors on campus predictably
went into outrage mode. It was
racist, they said. It was sexist, they
cried. They pulled out all of the
usual complaints. (Their utility belt
of trite, overused catch cries would
put Bruce Wayne to shame).
What these leftie do-gooders fail
to understand is that not only is
the University of Sydney one of
the greatest institutions in the
history of Western civilisation, all
their Women’s Studies lectures
and African American literature
tutorials are gifted to them by
that very institution. Maybe it
would serve these naysayers well
to actually enrol in the course and
gain an appreciation of the free,
democratic society that permits
their criticism.
But how about we humour them
for a minute. Let’s all imagine that
they’re right—as crazy as that may
be—and picture a world free of the
horrid grip of Western Civilisation.
I can guarantee it would look a lot
different—and they would not like
it!
Our university was established in
1857, a good seventy years after our
British ancestors came in the First
Fleet. The harpies on campus would
have you believe that event was one
of the most egregious in the history

of Western civilisation. So would
they prefer a world where it never
happened?
Would they prefer if none of our
culture, infrastructure or scientific
advances ever made it to the Great
Southern Land? Where Indigenous
Australians continued to use their
governance and social organisation
systems?
Perhaps that could’ve worked.
Who knows. But do you think for
a second that our delayed arrival
would mean that Indigenous
Australians could get on with their
lives unmolested by outside forces?
No. It just means that a few years
later the Chinese would come down
and take it all anyway.
Now, if the rabid left on campus
thought an Australia developed in
the Western tradition was a bad
idea, wait until they see what a
Chino-Australia would look like.
The University of Sydney would be
unrecognisable.
In accordance with Chinese
regulations regarding institutes of
higher learning, their universities
“must not have content that opposes
or attacks other countries or
peoples, or [promotes] illegal public
movements.” I guess that means no
more pro-Palestine demonstrations
on campus.

5

Say goodbye to your plastic straws.
And your plastic spoons and forks
too. Not for any environmental
reason. No, in this dark, alternate
universe we’d be lumped with
wooden chopsticks simply because
those Shanghai Knights seem to
think it makes eating easier. Let me
tell you this for free: it isn’t. How
utterly degrading!
President Xi Jinping even said that
Chinese universities “must adhere
to the correct political orientation.”
Maybe loony lefties wouldn’t
mind that one at all. I guess it
just depends on your definition of
“correct”.
Now, I could write thousands and
thousands of words about why
Western civilisations run laps
around the alternatives. I could
make rational, well-reasoned
arguments. I could give you facts
and logic. But it wouldn’t matter.
The anti-Ramsay protestors
wouldn’t care. Once they sink their
teeth into something like this they
just shake and snarl until the sane,
rational people give up and walk
away.
So, to all the lefties on campus
who would rather literally see
me die than sit down for an adult
conversation, I say this: gather ye
rosebuds while ye may. Have fun
destroying Western civilisation;
you’ll miss it when it’s gone.

taylor swift is
cancelled
LIAM ARMSTRONG

My heavenly, velvety Aryan
goddess—how could you do this to
us? We’re your loyal fans, your loyal
boys, who would go to the ends of
the earth to sniff the lint between
your toes.
Fellow gentlemen callers, our
vanilla empress, on her instagram,
hitherto a smear of pleasurable
pics, announced support for a
Democratic candidate. I can no
longer support her.

Ralph’s Cafe
Yes, our precious caucasian queen,
for whom we drank gallons of milk,
hoping to grow big and strong so
we’d become good enough for her to
fuck then cuck then pluck her guitar
strings and write a chart-topping
breakup song, is a leftist.
Now, Taylor please, think about
what you’re doing—can’t you see
that we’re the ones who understand
you, been white all along, so why
can’t you see? You belong with us.

i can’t believe
i can’t say...
RAM TOOK TO THE
FOOTPATHS TO
FIND OUT WHAT
OUR CONSERVATIVE
BRETHREN AREN’T
ALLOWED TO SAY
THIS WEEK

St Paul’s

St John’s

Wesley
St Andrew’s
“...I don’t like Muslims but there
might be something to this
Wahhabism thing.”

FREE
“...that I’m not a feminist. I’m not!
I don’t want men and women to
be equal because I want to be
dominated. That can’t happen if
we’re equal and no feminazi is
taking my orgasms away from me.”

SPEECH—THAT ’S HOT!
FEELING FREE? OR IS CENSORSHIP GETTING YOU DOWN? CHECK OUT
WHERE YOU CAN SPEAK YOUR MIND ON CAMPUS.
FREE

OPPRESSED

7

the case for
privatisation
THE MAJORITY OF THE ROUTES EXCEPT MINE, CONTENDS A.J. RUTHERFORD
Don’t get me wrong: I love public
transport. I catch the 343 every
morning. It goes straight from my
front door to uni. I pay my fare, and
I thank the driver as I get off.
However, public transport is a
public good. This is why we must
privatise it. All of it. Except the 343.
A problem faced by any public good
is the ‘free rider’ effect, which, I
would like to point out, is actually
named after the problem of people
riding for free on public transport.
I see this every morning, as young
men with long hair step onto the
bus and make a falsetto ding as
they pretend to ‘tap on’. They’re
not fooling anyone, not me, not the

bus driver and not all the honest
taxpayers who watch their shame.
This is the cancer that spreads
through all welfare programmes.
Hardworkers must cover the cost of
free riders.
And there is no limit to the
number of free riders: they breed
very quickly and their morals are
contagious, like their diseases.
Eventually nobody will pay for the
bus, except me.
Only the free market can
efficiently protect public transport.
Privatisation of Sydney’s public
transport will make it more
efficient: the routes will be more

8

logical, the services will be more
reliable, the profit margins will be
higher.
Except for the 343 because it is
running fine already.
I pay my fares and so does the old
man in a tweed jacket I spoke to
at my Willoughby bus stop. But
privatisation of every other route,
especially in the west, where nobody
pays their bus fares, makes the
system fairer for all.
The NSW government needs to step
in and privatise public transport in
Sydney, except the 343.

i pay my train fares
like a good boy
SO THAT MOTHER WILL GIVE ME TREATS, WRITES EUGENE MOIST

As a young, respectul lad, I get my kick from
following the law. The law is just and protects the
average, right-minded middle Australian. That’s
why I always pay my train fares. But it’s not just
that perfect, obedient fourth that spurs on my
taps; if mother hears of my respectfulness, she’ll
be sure to reward me with treats at suppertime!

Mother isn’t the only one who gives me treats.
Some thank their bus driver. Some thank the
train staff. I like to thank the brave and noble
transport officers who patrol the network every
day. Some of them recognise me: I tell them about
the troublesome knaves who are passing through
the gates invalidly. They let me dip into the
Favourites box and take three of my best.

Unlike those Stalinist troublemakers in the
unions I don’t think the rules need changing.
Perhaps the workers need to be incentivised with
suppertime treats. There’s certainly nothing I
won’t do for treats.

The saddest part of my day is when I go on a trip
and I do not come across any transport officers.
Sometimes I’ll ride the trains until I find one to
thank. One time, while waiting for a transport
officer to thank, I ended up taking the train
all the way to the scary, scary part of town my
parents had warned of.

One time, I found out my dear sister Lucy had
been riding the trains without a ticket! As soon
as I learnt of this I reported her to the authorities.
She was sent to the bad place for a long, long
time. As she was being taken away, I looked her
in the eye and explained “it’s for the best, I love
you.” And it’s true—I do. We needed to stamp
out these anarchist proclivities. I don’t care
if children under three ride for free, the rules
should apply to everyone. After that, Mother fed
me turkish delight. It was very tasty.

When mommy came to pick me up from
Bankstown station she brought a Toblerone. Now
I’m part of a Facebook group “Giving a hand to
transport officers”. I use it to know the location
of transport officers, in search of them and their
treats.

9

CAN’T BE TAMED
RAM SAT DOWN WITH FRANCIS TAMER, THE MEL
GIBSON OF THE CAMPUS RIGHT, TO DISCUSS HIS
RECENT ELECTION TO USYD’S SENATE
RAM: Why don’t you tell us a bit about
yourself?
FT: Well, as a devout Maronite
Catholic, my faith has been instilled
into me since birth. I was named
after all the great Francises: Sinatra,
the Saint of Assisi, and President
Underwood. My close friends call
me Papa Francesco though. It’s the
Pope’s nickname.
I’m a man of logic. But I’m also a
leader. In my 22 years, I’ve been
school captain, college dux and
distinguished achiever in three
extension maths units. The brothers
who ran my single-sex high school,
St Dominic’s, personally ensured
I went from boy to man. So as a
devout Maronite Catholic, it was
only natural to become heavily
involved in SUCS (Sydney Uni
Catholic Society) to build my name.
RAM: What’s it like being a man of
integrity and champion of freedom
at the most left-wing university in
Australia?
FT: Well, God tests us for a
reason, you know. It’s like I’m
Jesus, wandering for 40 days in
the wilderness, with the devil
everywhere. Except the wilderness
is campus and the devil is the Queer
Collective. Conservatives are a
minority on campus—it’s a struggle.
Buy, you know, the history books
are lined with people who had new
ideas and the courage to defend
them. All I’m saying is, why don’t
we just stick with those new ideas
instead of having to think up new

new ones all the time?
RAM: You’ve made headlines for your
Senate win—how does it feel to be the
holy voice of USyd’s undergrads?
FT: I think my win proves that
the satan-worshippers haven’t
won. [Laughs] Look, 1,800 upright,
god-fearing students voted for me.
It was a whitewash. But I’m not
surprised: like I said on the Bolt
Report, it’s always been cool to be a
conservative.
RAM: This wasn’t the first time you
ran for Senate—in fact, you were
robbed of victory back in 2016. What
was that like, and what was different
this time?
FT: Well back in 2016, God wasn’t
as deep inside of me yet. So I lost to
Colin [Whitchurch]. But I learnt my
lessons, and this time, I used Colin’s
methods.
RAM: Could you describe those
methods for us?
FT: It’s a bit like missionary work.
You show them the path to truth.
You point it out on the laptop
screen, just like you’d point out the
right passage in the Bible.
RAM: You were a noble footsoldier of
the Lord during the same-sex marriage
equality plebiscite. Why did you get
involved?
FT: I’m a devout Maronite Catholic,
so for me, the ‘No’ campaign was a
no-brainer. It’s not that I hate gays,

10

or think they should have fewer
rights than normal people. That’s
not it at all. Nobody has ever heard
me say I hate the gays.
RAM: You were assaulted by a ‘Yes’
campaigner on USyd’s Eastern Avenue.
Can you tell us about that, if it’s not too
difficult?
FT: It’s sad, isn’t it? Never before
in history have we seen one group
of people, convinced they have
truth on their side, so ready to use
violence to oppress and silence their
opposition.
They threw hummus at me. I can’t
even look at hummus anymore.
RAM: And a fun fact about you people
might not know?
FT: I analyse data.
RAM: What’s in store for the future,
Francis?
FT: My three appearances on the
Bolt Report these last two years have
been really great exposure. People
may not realise, but I’m a Devout
Maronite Catholic, so it only makes
sense to pursue stardom, just like
Mika. I just got my headshots done
for my IMDb profile and my agent
keeps asking me to emphasise I’m
6’4. There’s some really promising
independent short films being
offered to me at the moment:
The Virgin Mary, The Immaculate
Conception and The Second Coming of
Christ: On The Third Day He Rose.
My email is public
(undergraduatesenate@gmail.
com) and I will accept emails from
any and all fans regarding their
concerns or thoughts. Whether they
love me or hate me, I will make an
effort to read everything.

aujs should annex
the src
OP-ED / TYSON SCHOFIELD
The land currently being occupied by the
SRC is an extension of the homeland and
we must end it. Now that the terrorist
Left has used the machinery of the SRC to
vilify us, the time has come: AUJS must
annex the SRC.

As a proud Zionist, I’m not afraid to
say that the Australian Union of Jewish
Students at this university is a shame to
the great state of Israel.
“AUJS subscribes to Zionist ideals,” our
mission statement says, but what have we
achieved this year?

Doing so would quash the greatest threat
to AUJS’ security: the collectives.

How many of you voted for Adriana
because we failed to run an ethnonationalist candidate? How many of you
stood aside and let International Revue
colonise Jew Revue, when we could have
taken it for ourselves? How many of you
were learning how to make matzah when
you could have been learning Krav Maga
chokeholds?

Realistically, we have three options.
Following the example of Ben-Gurion,
we could storm the bunker, pushing the
inhabitants into Hermann’s to neutralise
the demographic threat. Or we could
stage a blockade, as in Gaza, and seize the
land after the inhabitants have perished.
However, both of these options are risky
with USyd’s management watching
from across the road. So I propose the
following: we take the SRC, one office at
a time, beginning with admin and closing
in on the President’s office, until we have
created Greater AUJS.

For too long, we have been fucking
around at interfaith events, while the
Students’ Representative Council has
been infiltrated by pro-Palestinian forces.
Since time immemorial, AUJS has had
a cultural and religious claim to Level 1
of the Wentworth Building, which will
henceforth be known as the historic land
of AUJS.

Next time you’re on Eastern Avenue,
playing our classic OWeek game ‘who’s
your favourite Jew?’, ask yourself: what
can I occupy across the road?

12

my club does
not need quotas
WE JUST NEED MORE FEMALE MEMBERS, SUBMITS DON McDOMALD
The left-wing echo chambers have
been reverberating of late. You may
well have heard their cavernous
roar. But despite what the small
acoustician choir might have sung,
rest assured, MANSOC does not
need to take affirmative action to
increase the number of females on
our exec.
“There has never been a female
exec,” they chorus. “Your entire
semester’s C&S funding was spent
on Brazzers subscriptions”, the
sleuths among them warble. “You
are misogynistic fuckwits,” they
chant.
I haven’t heard such a reverberant
falsehood since rival schools lauded
their 1st XV’s prowess at the footy.
The Marist Alumni Network Society
resents the accusation that we are
exclusionary, excessively-fraternal,
or otherwise misogynistic. In fact,
we’d like to have more women
around, particularly positions atop
us, in roles of authority. But, on pain
of discording with the resonant
overtones of social justice, the
performative moaning for quotas
betrays a premature climax.
The first reason that quotas are
inappropriate for MANSOC is
because we are firmly committed

to merit. It would violate such
commitments to abide by the
presence of executives ill-equipped
to handle the rigours of the post.
At present there is simply not
enough talent among our six female
members for such a Bolshevist
approach to maintaining these
standards. Though we do not rule
out the possibility an optimal female
might come along to earn her spot—
we are, obviously, not sexist—that
honour will only be bestowed should
they leave enough of an impression
on the MANSOC membership.

could forget our landmark Pornhub
scholarship. Hardly the initiatives of
a misogynistic organisation, I croon
to the chorale.
And yet, despite our very best
efforts, despite putting on our
Sunday best and even asking our
mothers’ for advice, females just
don’t seem to be interested in us.

Ultimately, at MANSOC’s latest
AGM, the majority agreed that
while it was natural to wonder when
it’d happen, eventually a woman
would come along that was right for
us, and that for now we’d just have
to cast our net wide and be ready for
when it comes. Organic change.

Why is it that there are so few
freedom festishistic femmes afoot?
Where is our Lauren Southern? We
know you are out there; the internet
has promised it. We are willing to
make whatever changes you want,
not just to our organisation, but
to ourselves. We have communal
gym sessions. We have rich
sociological theories concerning
the real injustices and inequalities
in society. We are poets, sportsmen,
and film buffs.

To that end, MANSOC believes
that before we can get females
above us, we must first stiffen our
interactions with them. After all,
greater numbers should mean more
access to the crests of the bell curve;
the crème de la crème, the 8+s/10.
That’s why we introduced the Arndt
Cup public speaking competition.
That’s why we provide free Tinder
DP photography sessions. And who

The question of quotas in MANSOC
is ultimately a moot one. The only
barrier women face to success is the
one they erect between us and them;
the one they hide behind when we
see them on the train after class, the
one they retreat to when they active
zone us another night, the one they
drift to when we discuss Tarantino.
We’ve done our best—it’s high time
they returned the call.

13

LIFECHOICE PRESENTS

MISS FETUS:

Oohhh damn, that’s one fine fetus. Its cerebral hemisphere
prominence is just dripping with personhood.

With skin as bouncy as this you wouldn’t know she’s 33 weeks old.
Beauty doesn’t age.

HOW TO:
TURN YOUR FORMAL DRESS
INTO A WEDDING DRESS
Words by Jackie Grace
1. Learn to Tie Your Laces
You won’t find lace on many formal
dresses, but you’ll need some if
you want to create your elegant
wedding couture! A little trick that
I developed is to steal a few doilies
from the cake table after mass. After
a few weeks your collection will be
big enough to start taping onto your
dress. Yes, stealing is a little bit
sinful—but God has been known to
look the other way in the name of
marriage.
2. The Long and Short of It
I get it. When you’re young, you
think the most important thing is
to get men to look at you. That’s
why many young women end up
with hems so high they occasionally
breach the knee. When it comes to

making a bridal gown, you may need
to find some sheets to attach to your
formal dress for extra length. Every
good wife knows their body is to
be seen by two men and two men
only: their husband and the big man
upstairs (their father).

perhaps cutting some eye holes into
the spare sheets you used earlier. Be
careful with this one though: you
don’t want to give off the impression
that you are a spooky ghost!

3. Veil as Old as Time

Cream, ivory, eggshell. They’re not
just the three main ingredients in a
scone, they’re also different names
for white! Now, you really should
have picked a white formal dress
because white indicates purity—and
if you’re not pure at your formal
you certainly won’t be pure at your
wedding. But if you were silly and
made a mistake, the simple solution
is to just pour bleach on your dress.
It’ll be a bright, shining white in no
time! Unfortunately you can’t pour
bleach on your impure life, but a
wedding is the next best thing.

The tradition of the veil at a
wedding dates back to the English
days of yore. Daughters would be
wrapped and presented as a gift
to wealthy suitors, who would
unwrap them before a priest and
decide whether to take their hand
in marriage. Today, we honour
that tradition by wearing a little
bit of sheer fabric over our face.
If you cannot afford a veil on the
hospitality wages of a twenty-yearold, consider pilfering a colander or

16

4. Your Pearly Whites

heaven is a safe space
WHO NEEDS SAFE SPACES WHEN GOD IS THE ULTIMATE REFUGE?
QUESTIONS MARY POPEWORTH

There are many, in these dark days,
who would “sow discord among
brothers” (Proverbs 6:19). But we,
the vanguard of civilisation, are
not so different from the identity
politicians after all. They want ‘safe
spaces’ on our campuses. And to
them we say: “Yes! God is our safe
space and our strength, a help in the
troubles that come heavily on us”
(Psalms 46:1).
That’s right, we’ve had safe spaces
for years. They’re called churches.
So we’re not really sure why the
Left think they’re so special. They
convert storerooms, put a sign on
the door banning white men and
call it a ‘safe space’. We build literal,
brick and mortar fortresses.

zombie shelter. Safety indeed, I
say—safety indeed.
Churches are full of God’s love.
Compare that to the ‘safe’ spaces
in our universities. They are bitter
places. One type of sinner flocks
together with his own kind, in the
unspeakable glow of perversion. Of
perverted posters.
I have seen these posters with my
own eyes. Lascivious tendrils of
sin, an embrace of flesh and bodies,
coils of lust and heavy breath.
But devil begone! For in the church,
all are welcomed with outstretched
arms. The man who commits
adultery, who steals, who rapes and
murders—he will be forgiven.

As Jesus says: “And I say to you that
thou art Peter, and upon this rock I
will build my church; and the gates
of hell shall not prevail against it”
(Matthew 16:18).

And he will be shielded. Shielded
from the sodomite, the swarthy
Canaanite, the woman. For they
have no place in the kingdom of
God.

Hewn from rock, an effective

A church is place of improvement.
17

Where we may be guided by the
preacher’s words, from the black of
despair, and through the strait gate.
Where Christ may lead us towards
the White City.
Would you rather wallow in a ‘safe’
space? Lonely, separated from
the brotherhood of man? Openly
defying God?
Only good may come from a church.
Innocence and purity, where our
children live in God’s image.
We must build more churches. At
this very university, many hands
have been stained by usury, so that
they might build tall towers of sin.
The new administration building.
The Abercrombie Business School.
Tear them down, I say.
For every man on campus, a church.
For every single sinner, let him have
his place of refuge. And then—like
devout St Hildegard—we must build
a wall. Brick over the entrance; leave
no way in. Then we shall be safe.

CONFESSIONS

i’m dating
a socialist
“She’s always talking about how men and women should
do equal work, which is great because she goes on top
half the time during sex.”

My family and friends are normally
pretty accepting people. They were
supportive when I first told them
I was joining the Liberal party.
Sure, dad was a bit put out when I
campaigned for Malcolm instead
of Pauline at the 2016 election. But
we bonded again when Peter made
his bid for PM. Dad and I had a
good yell at the TV when the lefties
stopped our boy from taking the
job that’s rightfully his. But I’ve
been struggling to explain the most
recent development in my life to
dad. I’ve been struggling to explain
it to myself.
I’ve started dating a socialist.
On September 15 2018, I was on
Eastern Avenue when I saw a poster
for the ‘SOCIALISM’ conference.
Being opposed to socialism and
all the violent oppression of free
speech it has led to, I started pulling
down the posters. But suddenly a
hand grabbed me around the wrist.
A beautiful, slender hand, with the
letters ‘U’, ‘S’, ‘S’ and ‘R’ tattooed on
its knuckles. I stared up, and locked
eyes with a beautiful face.
I always thought I wanted an Ayn
Rand.
18

But I’d found my Svetlana instead.
She showed me her petition, and
asked me to fill it out with my name
and number. I wrote it all down.
We’ve been inseparable ever since.
I feel a bit dirty when I’m with her,
like I’m doing something taboo.
When we go out, she always pays half
the bill, which I’m ethically opposed
to, but now I find it turns me on.
She’s always talking about how we
should tax the rich, so I transfer
her part of my dad’s allowance. She
goes on about how men and women
should do equal work, which is great
because she goes on top half the
time during sex.
But when I go to conservative club
meetings, I’m gripped by a terrifying
guilt. What would they think of me?
We make jokes about the poor like
normal, but I feel hollow inside. And
sometimes they laugh about Socialist
Alternative and this rage bubbles up
inside me, as red as the hammer and
sickle.
Oh god what have I become? Will my
family ever talk to me again? Is there
such a thing as socialist conversion
therapy?

agony arndt
by bettina

Bettina Arndt is a sex therapist and author
of The First Sex and Some Poon for One’s
Bone. In this column, she solves all the
hanky panky hiccups that could befall a
man and his woman. No question too saucy!

Greg, M, 23

Christine, F, 26

“Dear Agony Arndt,

“Dear Agony Arndt,

I’m having … problems with premature ejaculation. I try
everything—using two condoms, reciting baseball averages in
my head, even nasal spray and rectal incense—but most of
the time, I can’t last even 15 seconds. My girlfriend is getting
fed up. Please help me.”

My boyfriend calls me dirty names in bed, and it’s making me
uncomfortable. I’m all for dirty talk, but when he tells me I’m
a “slut”, I just feel degraded. How do I get him to stop?”
Christine, how dare you attempt to silence your man.
His right to free speech is absolute. He can use any word
he likes, whenever he likes. That is called living in the
free West, you vituperative shrew.

Greg, have you noticed it’s always the same people
complaining about premature ejaculation? That’s right.
Women. We must not kowtow to them, Greg. Premature
ejaculation does not exist. It is a myth, designed to
convince you that your peepee is diseased. They want
you to feel shame, Greg. So ashamed that you give up on
your masculine urges.

Do you know where we would be without free speech?
Probably in Lesotho or one of those awful countries. You
would prefer that to being called a slut?
And another thing: maybe you simply enjoy being
degraded. Have you thought about that? Perhaps you
are ashamed because your feminist coven have told
you inequality is a thoughtcrime. But it is natural for
a woman to be controlled. Weak needs strong just like
apples need bananas, or like Jacinda Ardern needs a
nose job.

Let me tell you, Greg. A man’s pleasure lasts just as long
as he wants it to. Anything else is just a woman’s fantasy.
Natasha, F, 21
“Dear Agony Arndt,
I think my boyfriend is a sex addict. I have a healthy libido,
but he wants it all the time. In the morning before work, in the
middle of the night, when we’re out and about in public, even
when we’re at his grandparents’ house for family dinners. It’s
embarrassing me and frankly, I just don’t want to have sex
that often. How can I tell him to slow down?”

Mark, M, 22
“Dear Agony Arndt,
My boyfriend and I come from very traditional backgrounds,
and this is the first time either of us has been in a relationship
since coming out. It’s new for both of us but even though we’re
pretty inexperienced, things are really hot in bed. Now we
want to take it to the next level, but people say anal sex can
be painful. Any tips?”

Natasha, here’s what I think: just do it. That’s right. Just.
Do. It. You’re clearly suffering from a defective libido.
But you must open yourself up. Let it happen. You will
enjoy making your man happy, even if you do not enjoy
the sex itself.

Mark, you must stick to vaginal sex. The back passage
is for one thing and one thing only—and young
impressionable men shouldn’t poke around down there!

Right now, your boyfriend is clearly suffering. Like all
men, he has effluent that he needs to release. It’s your
job to help him.

So just follow your instincts and do what’s natural like
the rest of us!

Missed Connection
To the petite beauty I saw at Taste Cafe at 1600 hours on Tuesday.
Your jet black hair hasn’t left my mind since our chance encounter.
Should I say chance? No. It was fate. Destiny, is what I think
your people would say. Since that day, I’ve searched far and wide.
I’ve looked in Cabramatta, Hurstville, Eastwood to no avail.
Where are you? My Wechat ID is lkng4azn192092562. Hit me up
onegaishimau.
Keith Miller, Bachelor of Arts (Asian Studies)

love
Sound of Music
You were playing the piano on the top level of Manning. I’m
something of a pianist myself. I love Yiruma—‘River Flows in
You’ is a classic piece of piano, do you know it? You probably do.
Your soft fingers pushed the keys so delicately. Perhaps you can
teach me how to use chopsticks over some pho? My Wechat ID is
mklspnc193937471.
Todd Archibald, Bachelor of Arts (Japanese Cinema)

letters
Let me be your saviour
My oriental beauty, I can protect you from all the perils of this
world. Having been honed in the art of languages from a young
age, you won’t need subtitles from me. “Woah ai ni” I’ll whisper
to you—I promise, babygirl. No more fighting. We’ll put an end to
the confllict. Let our love be the bridge over the South China Sea.
WeChat: istudiedtheblade192301890.
Chad Murray Michael, Bachelor of Arts (Korean)/Bachelor of Laws

21

INCEL PAGES
These pages are written by the SRC Incel Collective, and are not modified in any way by the editors of RAM.

joseph of nazareth:
the first cuck
IT TAKES A REAL MAN TO LET GOD FUCK HIS GIRLFRIEND,
WRITES DWAYNE “THE CUCK” JOHNSON
Yesterday, my girlfriend’s boyfriend
called me a cuck while he was
fucking her.
I’m sure you’re shocked, so was I.
But I would hazard a guess—you
and I are shocked about different
things. See, unlike the big strong
man who was thrusting his meat
into my loved one: I don’t think cuck
is that bad a word.
One need not look further than
the greatest story ever told to see
that ‘cuck’ is not so taboo after all.
Consider St Joseph of Nazareth: the
original cuck.
Now there’s a man who got it rough
on all sides and still held his head

high. His wife had a baby put in
her by the literal embodiment of
everything that is good in this
Universe. She was beefed in the
beaver by three men at once: the
father, the son and the Holy Ghost.
I’ve seen some Chads in my time,
but none of them compare to our
almighty saviour’s ability to come
twice.

was cucked by the same man who
was now growing inside his wife,
but he decided to stand by his hot
wife and raise the very bull that
bucked him into cuckdom. Imagine
raising your bull. Getting pissed on
while you change his diaper. Joseph
was a cuck, but in raising his bull,
Lord Jesus Christ, he proved that
cucks can be real men.

At the point of immaculate
conception, Joseph was already
cucked. He was the biggest cuck in
town. What’s staggering is what he
did next. He stayed by Mary’s side
and, despite the craziest fucking
explanation as to how she got up the
duff, never insisted that the child
was his. He knew very well that he

That’s why when my girlfriend is
getting rinsed by a man twice my
height and three times my girth, I
don’t care that he calls me a cuck.
I’d rather have greatness thrust
upon me like Joseph, than thrust
greatness into someone else any day
of the week.

22

INCEL PAGES
These pages are written by the SRC Incel Collective, and are not modified in any way by the editors of RAM.

review:
the 2018 blue ball
THE SOCIAL EVENT OF
THE YEAR,
REVIEWED BY PETER
TAPIR
Last week the USyd Incel Collective
held our fifth annual Blue Ball.
It was a night of revelry and
camraderie, as the collective
celebrated another year of activism
for Incel representation on campus
and beyond.
Sadly no women joined us, however
the night was enjoyed by all
regardless.
All proceeds from the event
went to Fathers for Family Court
Representation, as has become
custom at the Blue Balls.

23

TO SOOTHE A
SAVAGE BEAST
Music, I believe, is where our culture reaches its climax. It has an architecture, soaring to a steepled point
of transcendence. We must cherish the greats: those men who celebrate the beautiful, and make us whole. I
offer my thoughts on the latest additions here, in the hope you too will be ennobled.

André Rieu: The Blue
Danube Waltz, But
Every Time it Gets
Slower

André Rieu: New
Year’s Concert Bumper
Edition DVD

Marshall Bruce
‘Eminem’ Mathers III:
Kamikaze

Ah, the ‘Blue Danube’. Richard
Strauss was a man ahead of his time.
They say the Danube really does
look blue, when the moon shines
just right. It is not hard to imagine,
when you hear this piece played by
the world’s greatest violinist and
his orchestra. I can picture André’s
leonine mane, his sly Dutch fingers,
the ruffles of his shirt front. He
moves with a slow romance, and
does not speed through the honey
of life. He is what all young men
should aspire to be.

Oh to see the top hats and coattails!
Oh to glimpse opera glasses and
gowns! This is an evening of
magic, my own pumpkin carriage
right there on digital versatile
disc. I quake as André strides into
view, beaming with a masculine
power. But those dancing girls, the
screeching sopranos who throw
themselves at him, they are not
good enough for him! I have seen
how they look at him. I watch them
each evening, every time I replay
this masterful concert. They will not
have him.

Mather’s latest release is a defiant
contrapunto to the emerging
hip-hop establishment. Like the
sparkling sculptures of antiquity,
something ineffable sets Mathers
above the other tinkerers in the
so-called ‘rap’ genre. Perhaps it
is a clarity of enunciation, that
leaves his timbre less muddied. Or
perhaps it is the control with which
he alludes violence: somehow less
crass, less threatening. Whatever the
reason, Shady masterfully models a
contained rebellion, a virtuous civil
pact that resonates with middle
Australia.

24

michael spence: my day
on a plate
Every week, our dietician chats with a different standard-bearer of
culture about what they eat in a day. This week, we caught up with
USyd Vice-Chancellor Dr Michael Spence BA (Hons.) LLB D.Phil
(Oxon) P.Dip Theology, to find out what fuels the fight for Western
civilisation.

6.00 am
I’m an early riser—which helps with my busy schedule. To
start the day, a triple shot ristretto, a naughty habit I picked up
when I lived in Piedmont. I only drink kopi luwak, the world’s
most refined single origin. The beans are gathered from the
excrement of the Vietnamese weasel, which sniffs out and eats
the ripe fruit.
8.00 am
I arrive in the Inner West, where I’m booked in for a
working breakfast at the Boathouse on Blackwattle Bay. It’s
an unassuming spot, with the bustle of the fish markets a
few hundred metres away. But I thrive among these simple
dockland people, and their hearty food: I order a Coromandel
yellowbelly flounder roasted on the bone with tuscan cabbage,
pinenuts, currants.
12.00 pm

OUR DIETICIAN, DR CINDY
BROSKO, SAYS:
Top marks for….
Making the best out of what you’ve
got. We don’t all have time to cook,
or go grocery shopping. Some of us
have to get by on a corporate credit
card and $1.4 million salary.
If you keep eating like this
you’ll….
Have the energy to roundhouse
kick student protestors all the way
back to the USSR.
Why don’t you try…
Eating a lamington or a meat pie,
so Ray Hadley won’t accuse you
of betraying Australia for the
international students.

The driver whisks me into the city for a quick lunch break at
Quay, one of my regular haunts. The harbour sparkles, like
my bottle of Krug. I take a light meal of southern swimmer
crab, smoked pig jowl and crystalised oloroso caramel. Peter
Gilmore can’t be faulted, now that he’s taken that demotic
snow egg off the menu.
5.00 pm
My driver decides to take me home through the Cross City
Tunnel, which is a traffic nightmare. I box him about the ears
and reach for the caviar in the onboard fridge. Ariel Sharon
never travelled without caviar and champagne.
8.00 pm
A quiet dinner at Hubert, a little subterranean fin de siècle
joint on Bligh St. My wife loves the dainty little escargots
here, but I prefer the lobster platter myself. We both ardore
Hubert—it is a charming canteen for us when the cook has a
night off.
11.30 pm
A sneaky Macca’s run on the way home. I order a Grand Angus
burger and a diet fanta.

25

THE EPICUREAN

food of the kings:
western cuisine
Now, we all know that the University of Sydney is proximate to a number of small businesses
serving exotic delicacies from the Thai region. The Inner West is renowned for its many
restaurants emblazoned with amusing puns on the word. Even on our exceedingly tolerant
campus, we have branched out to serve “sushi” and “poke” at Fisher coffee cart. Some say these
options are a delight, but the high-minded conservatives among us disagree.
We must not let these exotic foods invade our campus outlets. Spice is not the spice of life. Free
speech is the spice of life. And, on this campus, man is not free to eat lard on toast.
Bring back the bland!

MAYONNAISE
JELLO

PRAWN
JELLO

TUNA FISH
MOLD

What glorious offspring from
the mildest and whitest of all
condiments! Carslaw Kitchen would
be much improved by the serving of
this creative concoction. Imagine
chewing this creamy, slightly
rubbery delight, as it melts on your
tongue. Simply delicious!

This lime and prawn jello will
make the ethnics green with envy!
You will marvel at the bursts of
tomato flavour puncturing the
sour lime, before biting into the
prawns, mashing the strings of flesh
together with the congealed gelatin.
A sweet and salty treat!

Teach a man to fish, and he will
never be hungry again in his life.
But this dish, made of fish, and
shaped like it too, is the pinnacle
of Western innovation. Share a
slippery sliver with friends, and
relish this paste as it slides across
your tongue, coating it in a film.

26

THE EPICUREAN

noodles are just
sino-tibetan pasta
IT’S NOT SO HAND-CUT AND DRY, CLAIMS MICHAEL GROSSE PHD

Every year, the City of Sydney holds
a month-long celebration of the
staple Asian food: noodles. This
year, the Sydney Night Noodle
Markets ran from October 4 to
October 21 in Hyde Park and
swathes of people came from all
across the Greater Sydney region
to attend this celebration of Asian
cuisine. Yet these attendees, mostly
white millennials, may I add, paid no
attention to the fact that they were
paying through the nose for dressed
up peasant-meals. I don’t think my
generation would ever spend $30 on
a bread and butter pudding and in
the next breath, decry the housing
market.
These cashed-up perpetual students
and wannabe food blog influencers
also seemed to care very little that
these noodle markets were held just
metres away from one of Sydney’s
most sacred sites: the ANZAC
Memorial.
I wonder what our diggers—who
died on the fields of war defending
this country and its Western
ideals—would think of this
ludicrous display. I expect that they,
and I also hold this opinion myself,
would much prefer to see a different
celebration held in its place. A
celebration put on by the City of
Sydney that doesn’t capitulate to the
SJWs and ne’er-do-wells that have
left the door ajar for this century’s
Asian Invasion.
No, next year the City of Sydney
should cease bankrolling this affront

to Australian values and should
instead set up a festival under a new
banner: Sydney Celebrates Pasta.
It would occupy the same space in
Hyde Park and the same space in
October (a month that should be
noted is named after the Latin word
“octō” meaning eight. I’m sure if our
forebears wanted our eighth month
to be dedicated to chowing down on
chow mein they would have called it
Hachitober).
The change has a cultural precedent.
Noodles are just pasta, the recipe
for which I can only assume
somehow found its way from
the Mediterranean, across the
Himalayas and into the Orient. Now,
history books may try and convince
you that noodles pre-date pasta by
a number of centuries but that is
merely a misrepresentation of the
facts by ‘progressive’ media.
I’ll admit it. Out of noodles and
pasta, the one with the earliest
mention in recorded text may be
noodles. However, back in the day
we didn’t need to photograph or
write an essay about every meal we
had and share it with the world.
We didn’t do that in the seventies
and I’m sure we also didn’t do it in
25-220 AD. Maybe everyone was too
busy eating the delicious pasta to
stop and write a haiku about it.
I understand my idea may spark
some hesitation. People may not
agree that a pasta festival represents
the kind of multicultural Australia

27

we should be striving for. But to
that I say, you must update your
worldviews. Italians are as much
a part of the thread of Australia
as our convict ancestors and I
will not sit idly by as their good
name is tarnished. Yes, they made
some foolish decisions in the past
two World Wars regarding their
allegiances and yes, their arrival in
Australia ushered in the broadening
of our immigration policy that has
led us to the mess we’re in today. But
must I remind you that these hardworking, olive-skinned individuals
come from the birthplace of
democracy, value the contest of
ideas and have proven incredibly
able and willing to assimilate into
our robust Australian society.
After seventy years of valued service
to our nation, a festival of pasta
would be a reward. A celebration of
the food we have to accept as one of
our own staples. A Noodle Festival,
full of dishes that I cannot and
will not pronounce correctly, is an
affront to these noble members of
our society: honest immigrants who
came here from a wartorn country
roughly forty to sixty years ago.
Kind, generous people who set up
small restaurants and shared their
cuisine with us. Mothers and fathers
who sacrificed everything so that
their children might have a chance
in Australia. And yes, it occurs to me
now that I am also describing the
plight of the Vietnamese. But that
situation is very different because of
reasons I hardly have to explain.

SOMEWHERE ONLY
WE KNOW

daddy’s château
IN THE HUMBLEST OF PLACES WE FIND A SENSE OF
WHO WE ARE, WRITES HEINRICH KEITEL

When I was a child, my family would
spend summer in Provence. I mean,
of course, the European summer.
We would leave Australia as soon as
the first winter squall touched Point
Piper: there was nothing to keep
us, for this southern land lacks all
hibernal charm—no yuletide balls
and no snow worth skiing on. So we
boarded the jet and took off: first to
Paris, then to Marseille and then,
by limo, to a little château. The
Château Rivau-le-Vicomte Mansart.
Each year, as we drove through into
the countryside, I would sigh with
a pregnancy beyond my years. Here
were fields, verdant as the hills. And
here were wheat crops, humming
with the movement of a Sisley or
a Renoir. Later, if the summer had
been hot, the farm hands might
begin an early harvest. They would
cut long swathes through the wheat,
their scythes a rhythm of work and
all that is good. I always longed to
join them, just as Tolstoy’s Levin
works with the peasants, reaping the
fruit of the land with the sweat of
his brow. In those moments, I feel
sure I understood Anna Karenina.
Before long, the Royce was winding
up our long gravel drive. And
there it was, set against a copse
of old maples. A sweeping cream
façade—counter-reformation, with
the undular beat of Borromini’s San
Carlino on the Quirinale. Above—a
pitched roof, cresting into four, tiled
turrets.

28

In summer, the days passed like
an endless golden shower. At the
breakfast table, maman and I would
practise our Français. Eggs became
oeufs, bacon became jamon, a piece
of toast un toast. Later, we would
walk in the French garden. Why of
course it is French, I would exclaim
to maman, we are in France! She,
sage woman, would smile, as she
explained the geometrical order of
the jardin.
Only later did I visit English
gardens. They are cruel things, with
their terrible overgrowth.
We would take dinner at midday,
and I would then pass the afternoon
with Gaston, the vintner. Our
cellar was an arsenal of refinement.
Sometimes, if I had shined my shoes
especially bright, he would give
me a taste of the Rothschild ‘56, or
the Dom Perignon ‘69. I fancied
myself a country lad, flush with
the pleasures of his first feast, like
the splendid wedding banquet in
Madam Bovary.
Often, I think back on moments like
these, and pity my contemporaries.
They will never understand the
world that made Flaubert into
Flaubert, or Dumas into Dumas.
They will never know what it is
to conjugate one’s verbs under
the summer sun. Or to beat local
boys with a stick when they come
to poach one’s pheasants. I have
known these things.

puzzles

Across
2 Warm beverage so central
to British culture that they
practically invented it (3)
6 An odious group of bleeding
hearts, far-left extremists and
cultural Marxists (3)
9 This American agency has
done great work imposing
democracy on other lesser
nations (3)
10 A type of creature from
English author J. R. R.
Tolkien’s seminal fantasy
series (3)
11 A quintessential symbol of
Aussie car culture (3)
12 Recognised with praise (7)
13 This fine art form was
born when Thespis first
braved the Athenian stage in
times of old. It was perfected,

from Tolkien’s fantasy epic (3)
22 First name of the Boy from
Bowral, the greatest Aussie
cricketer of all time (3)
23 This man laid the very
foundations of Western
philosophy and science (5)
24 This leader, this hero,
is the definition of English
statesmanship (9)
28 First name of the Canadian
singer-songwriter, poet and
novelist who sang Hallelujah
(7)
29 The biblical patriarch
who passed down the JudeoChristian values we hold dear
(7)
31 This grain is the main
ingredient of the flavoursome
breakfast dish, porridge (3)
32 Be the owner of (3)
33 Since the late 19th
Century, our boys in the
baggy green have contended
against the poms for this wee
trophy (3)
34 What goes down in the
West (3)
35 James Watson and Francis
Crick were the first to model
this molecule (3)

QUICK

of course, by the likes of
none other than the Bard of
Stratford-upon-Avon (7)
14 Italian conductor who
directed orchestras such as
La Scala and the New York
Philharmonic (9)
16 It was one of the greatest
tragedies in human history
when these troglodytes took
Constantinople. But our lads
showed ‘em a thing or two at
Gallipoli! (5)
17 The founding of this
public service was without
doubt the greatest post-war
social reform Britain ever
made (3)
19 Postal agency established
by His Majesty Charles II in
1660 (3)
21 Another type of creature

Down
1 In the days before drivel
such as jazz, reggae, and ‘hip
hop’ polluted our ears, this
Austrian prodigy made music
with true artistry (6)
2 A race of deities in Greek
mythology (6)
3 35-Across, say (4)
4 This ratbag wouldn’t know
Western Civilisation if it
occupied his country for 90
years (6)
5 This formidable French
writer and philosopher was

a major figure in the Age of
Enlightenment (8)
6 A type of method developed
by the great minds of the west
(10)
7 Cultivated, refined, learned
(8)
8 You won’t find a more
rational or articulate advocate
of classical liberal values than
this Canadian professor! (8)
15 A member of the great
race who inhabited Great
Britain in the 5th Century
and went on to conquer the
globe—nowadays, though, our
own parliament thinks it’s not
OK to be one! (5-5)
17 Remarkable military
commander who built the
magnificent French Empire
(8)
18 Places such as Shanghai,
Aden, Kolkata, and the Cape
of Good Hope, were all under
our control when Britannia
ruled the wave (8)
20 The collective of nations
that invented democracy,
the rule of law, Christian
values, philosophy, science,
mathematics, technology and
medicine (8)
25 This celestial body
was discovered in 1781 by
Frederick William Herschel,
KH, FRS (6)
26 The fatherland of
Odysseus, hero of Homer’s
masterful epic, The Odyssey
(6)
27 Mathematical concept
essential to calculus (6)
30 One of the greatest
philosophers of the 20th
Century, originator of
Objectivism and author of
Atlas Shrugged (4)

defund honi soit
I know what you’re thinking. Honi
Soit has always been a provocative
rag. A peddler of counterculture and
progressive resistance. Very well.
But actions have consequences. The
past year has been one disaster after
another; one disgraceful editorial
decision collapsing into the next.
The students of Sydney University
deserve more.

power to account. And your money
pays for all of it!

Now I’m all for free speech. But
free speech exists so people can
say things like “we’re being taxed
too much”, or “Manus Island isn’t
actually that bad”.

The Honi team are a bunch of
nogoodniks untroubled by the law.
Criminal acts were described and
endorsed. Our friends at The Daily
Telegraph rightly wondered why
students pay for this immoral tripe.

And it’s these same freedom-hating
Juche fetishists who spit chips when
the real truthtellers on campus hold

Conservatives on campus face
enough problems getting votes
and clout, suffering as they do by
unprepossessing countenances.
They do not need the added obstacle
of leftist triggered snowflakes with a
student-funded platform.

This claptrap has been going on for
far too long, volke. All Honi teams

are just as disposed to madness
as this one. But at least previous
iterations had some good content
to offset their transgressions.
The same cannot be said of this
supercilious, self-aggrandising,
attention-seeking rabble. The call,
therefore, is an easy one to make:
Scott Morrison, end this scam now...
stop directing compulsory student
payments towards a publication
that is so unabashedly polemical,
so unthinkingly provocative and so
unashamedly anti-student.
Still disagree with me? Compare
two lists: below, the grandeur of the
right’s finest; and opposite, every
degenerate sub-life invoved in Honi
Soit. I hope you are disgusted.

First Man ﬁxes itself right there. At
that human level of Neil Armstrong
and Janet Armstrong and the rest of
the pilots and engineers who turned,
in eight years, the ungrounded
proclamation of a voluble president
into the achievement of the second
half of the American Century. But
for all the ﬁlm’s effective glimpses
of domestic life—around dinner
tables, around swimming pools,
around the potluck at a test pilot’s
wake—this is a movie that will be
known for the scenes inside the
cockpits of spacecraft, for making
us experience the visceral trauma
and terror of riding untested rockets
into the vacuum of space, or guiding
a tin can to the lunar surface.

in a claustrophobic cockpit atop a
veritable bomb, and makes us feel
every inch of what it was like to
not know that landing on the moon
would someday seem inevitable.
First Man ﬁxes itself right there. At
that human level of Neil Armstrong
and Janet Armstrong and the rest of
the pilots and engineers who turned,
in eight years, the ungrounded
proclamation of a voluble president
into the achievement of the second
half of the American Century. But
for all the ﬁlm’s effective glimpses
of domestic life—around dinner
tables, around swimming pools,
around the potluck at a test pilot’s
wake—this is a movie that will be
known for the scenes inside the
cockpits of spacecraft, for making
us experience the visceral trauma
and terror of riding untested rockets
into the vacuum of space, or guiding
a tin can to the lunar surface.

To shoot something so fortiﬁed
in the public imagination with
fresh eyes, to strip the veneer off,
as Chazelle says, might ordinarily
threaten to diminish a historical
achievement. Not so in the case of
the moon landing. Because when you
strip the veneer off those Gemini
and Apollo missions, you actually
see how much more difficult, how
much more incredible, how much
more daring and unnecessary and
inadvisable the whole escapade
was. This movie straps us there,

To shoot something so fortiﬁed
in the public imagination with
fresh eyes, to strip the veneer off,
as Chazelle says, might ordinarily
threaten to diminish a historical
achievement. Not so in the case of
the moon landing. Because when you
strip the veneer off those Gemini
and Apollo missions, you actually
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see how much more difficult, how
much more incredible, how much
more daring and unnecessary and
inadvisable the whole escapade
was. This movie straps us there,
in a claustrophobic cockpit atop a
veritable bomb, and makes us feel
every inch of what it was like to
not know that landing on the moon
would someday seem inevitable.
chievement of the second half of the
American Century. But for all the
ﬁlm’s effective glimpses of domestic
life—around dinner tables, around
swimming pools, around the potluck
at a test pilot’s wake—this is a movie
that will be known for the scenes
inside the cockpits of spacecraft, for
making us experience the visceral
trauma and terror of riding untested
rockets into the vacuum of space, or
guiding a tin can to the lunar surface.
To shoot something so fortiﬁed in the
public imagination with fresh eyes,
to strip the veneer off, as Chazelle
says, might ordinarily how much
more daring and might ordinarily
how much more daring and might
ordinarily how much more daring an
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